


The Rabbit That Came Out Of The Wardrobe

by felisblanco



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 18:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11492121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felisblanco/pseuds/felisblanco
Summary: Written as a fanfic assignment for a fantasy class at Uni.





	The Rabbit That Came Out Of The Wardrobe

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a fanfic assignment for a fantasy class at Uni.

Martin moved out of what he’d come to think of as their flat – even if it was originally Susan’s – on a Saturday in March. The decision to end their relationship had been joint and amenable, and, even if he felt saddened by this rather drastic change in his life, it was more Susan’s companionship that he mourned than their relationship. He liked being greeted when he came home from work by someone who cared, someone he could share his day with, or sit quietly beside, depending on the mood. He liked falling asleep to another person’s breathing and waking up to their limbs crowding his space. He even liked having to wait his turn for the bathroom and fighting over the last piece of toast. He wasn’t made to live alone, he felt, and would freely admit that this was probably why he had moved in with Susan three years earlier. Not that he hadn’t loved her, he was sure he had and even still did, if in a more friendly than romantic way. But he knew that if they had only lived together and not _been_ together, had slept side by side without ever being intimate, it would have worked just as well for him, perhaps even better. In short, he wasn’t so much looking for love as he was simply looking for someone to share his life with.

Which brought Martin to the present dilemma. He had finally found a flat he liked. It was in the right neighbourhood, was reasonably priced, comfortable and most importantly, it didn’t smell weird. It was even partly furnished. What it didn’t have was a person to share it with. There wasn’t even an extra room for him to rent out and although he probably could find someone to share the bed with, desperate homeless prostitutes weren’t really his type. Problem was, he was himself getting rather desperate, (and he was technically homeless, which meant prostitution wasn’t that far off), and even though the thought of living alone didn’t appeal to him, he figured he didn’t have much of a choice.

Partly furnished meant there was a kitchen table and chairs, a sofa in the living room, and a bed and wardrobe in the bedroom. Not that he needed much else but as the weeks went by he found himself adding various things to the flat. A coffee table by the sofa, a comfy chair for reading and watching telly, and a chest of drawers for the bedroom. The last item wasn’t really by choice but simply because, when he moved in, the wardrobe proved to be locked and the key was nowhere to be found.

“I’m sure it’s here somewhere,” his landlady, Mrs. Jones, had said puzzled. “The young lady who lived here before you never mentioned there being a problem.”

“The young lady who lived there before him” was mentioned quite frequently in their conversations. Not for sentimental reasons since, apparently, she had been a rather “free-spirited young girl” – which Martin took to mean not in a good way, judging by the disapproving look on his landlady’s face. It was the circumstances of her leaving that repeatedly brought her up and Mrs. Jones’ fear that those circumstances would arise again. “The young lady who lived there before him” had disappeared without putting in her notice, paying rent or even removing her furniture. The police had been informed but nothing seemed to suggest foul play – other than by the young lady herself, running out on her responsibilities. Her clothes and personal items were gone and the kitchen had been emptied of everything apart from a box of Turkish delights that had been left on the table. “Empty, of course,” Mrs. Jones noted with a huff, seeming rather put out by that particular detail. Martin dutifully bought her a full box the next day, only to be told she never ate the stuff. “I’m diabetic, you know. But it’s the thought that counts. Thank you, dear,” she said and took the box anyway.

As he settled into his new life as a single man, Martin found himself pleasantly surprised by how content he was, despite the circumstances. Contrary to his predicament he slept rather well on his own, even better than when he shared a bed with Susan who had had a habit of talking in her sleep and jabbing him with her elbows whenever she rolled over. Sometimes he dreamt someone was sleeping beside him and although he never could make out the person’s face in his dreams, the sound of soft breathing was comforting enough that he found himself looking forward to going to bed in the evenings and dreading having to get up for work. On weekends he slept in and woke up feeling rejuvenated and oddly happy. Maybe he had been wrong about needing company. Maybe a bachelor’s life was really more his style.

After three weeks of living on his own, it happened for the first time that he woke up in the middle of the night. There was nothing odd about that, he had gone to the pub with some of his colleagues after work and drunk a few more beers than his bladder could handle. He thought he felt the mattress move a little as he stirred awake, as if someone small was rolling hurriedly out of bed, but once he opened his eyes he saw, of course, that he was alone, as always. There was a strange light in the room though. At first he thought that he had left the curtains open and it was later in the morning than he had guessed. But when he looked across the room he discovered that the light had quite a different origin. For a moment he sat still, blinking sleepily, and wondered if perhaps he was dreaming. The door to the wardrobe, which as far as he knew was still missing its key, stood wide open and from within emanated a pale light, the kind he automatically associated with snowy winter mornings and Christmas. It even felt cold in the room, considering the weather had been rather nice these last few weeks and warmer than usual for early April.

Martin shuddered and fumbled for the robe that he kept on a chair on the other side of the bed. It managed to escape his searching fingers so he allowed his gaze to leave the wardrobe for just a moment to look for it. The moment he turned his head the room went dark. As he turned his gaze back he could only barely make out the wardrobe in the sliver of light that penetrated the curtains from the streetlights outside. Its door was once again closed and there was nothing that indicated that it had ever been open.

Martin frowned. He turned on the reading lamp by his bed, slipped on the robe and got out of bed to investigate. The wardrobe was closed and locked; there was no doubt about that. He tugged on the handle but the door refused to budge. He tried peeking through the keyhole but saw nothing but darkness.

Well, of course not. He’d woken up in the middle of a dream and it had taken his brain a moment to bring him back to reality. That was all. Martin shook his head and smiled at how silly he was acting. Then he went to the bathroom to do his business before slipping back into bed and falling promptly asleep. When he woke up tired and bad tempered for the first time since moving in, he blamed it on his drinking.

When at first things started to disappear from the flat Martin became annoyed rather than concerned. Mrs. Jones had a key to the flat and what’s more, she had a habit of dropping by without knocking. Seems she felt that, since it was her property, she had the right to look in on it, and its occupant, whenever she wanted, quite possibly to check whether he was fully clothed or not. If nothing else her actions had cured Martin pretty quickly of his newly discovered fondness for nude breakfast. So rather than suspect strangers of breaking in, Martin assumed Mrs. Jones was the one to blame for whatever went missing. Among them were books and clothes but mostly it was items of food that disappeared and for some reason always the sweeter kind, never vegetables or boring things like pasta or potatoes. No, Mrs. Jones seemed to have a taste for sweet juice, chocolate milk and lemon custard biscuits.

He tried not to let it bother him but the day he came home from work and found that his newly bought chocolate cake had vanished it finally proved too much for his patience. Already being in a bad mood because of an annoying client at work, he felt he couldn’t let it go, in fact he decided it was time he confronted his landlady. Reining in his anger he went downstairs, knocked on Mrs. Jones’s door and, when she opened it, asked her straight out whether she had been raiding his kitchen, most recently relieving him of the chocolate cake he had bought for his mother’s birthday.

(That was a lie. His mother’s birthday was in September and furthermore, she lived in Lancashire which meant he was not likely to visit her on a whim. Martin just didn’t want Mrs. Jones to know that he had bought a whole cake for himself. He had seen the disapproving look she gave him the last time she walked in on him half-naked in front of the telly, drinking beer. He was certainly not getting fat, but he was perhaps not quite as lean as he used to be. Not that that was any of his landlady’s business!)

Mrs. Jones stared at Martin, at first in confusion, then surprise, then gravely insulted. As if she would steal from her tenants! How dare he suggest such a thing? She was diabetic, as he should do well to remember. (He had, he’d just always assumed she was making that up.) Did he really think she was looking to kill herself with something as ridiculous as a chocolate cake?

Martin backed off quickly, hands in air, sputtering his apologies. Clearly he was mistaken. He must have eaten the cake himself and then forgotten all about it. The same went for all the other food. And his jumper, he must have left it at work. The book he was reading, he probably forgot it on the train. And all the other things … Well, he didn’t know what had become of them but he was sure it was all his own fault. Flushed and embarrassed he fled back upstairs to his flat, and locked the door firmly behind him before dropping down on the sofa, head in hands, to ponder his sanity or lack thereof.

A small sound finally made Martin look up. He froze. He blinked. He closed his eyes, counted to ten, and then opened them again. It made no difference to what he was seeing.

In the doorway to the bedroom there was a rabbit. Not like any rabbit he’d seen, this one stood on its hind legs, was wearing a waistcoat and a jacket and a sixpence cap, and looked… well, bashful. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew that, it wasn’t like it was blushing but it did seem to have a hard time looking straight at him and one of its front paws kept reaching up to rub at one long ear.

“Wh-what…” Martin stammered.

“Hello,” said the rabbit shyly.

Martin gave a high-pitched scream, jumped over the sofa and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him. He hardly made it to the toilet to sit down before collapsing, his knees were shaking so badly. His teeth were shattering as well and when he lifted his hands they were a blur from how they were trembling. What on earth was going on?

After half an hour – which Martin spent trying to remember if a) there were any cases of mental illness in his family (He was pretty sure not, unless he counted his mother’s obsession with garden gnomes.) b) he was drunk (No, not today.) and c) he had perhaps fallen asleep again and this was all a very strange and vivid dream (He pinched himself and it hurt quite a bit so no, probably not.) – he got up from the toilet and went over to the door, laying his ear against it. He couldn’t hear anything. Not that he really knew what a rabbit should sound like (Except that when they talked they apparently had a rather squeaky voice. But of course rabbits didn’t talk. Even if that one had. Maybe it had been an echo. Or Mrs. Jones’s radio downstairs. Yes, that must have been it.) Bravely Martin opened the door and peeked outside. The hall was clear of rabbits or any other animals. Relieved, he stepped out and walked cautiously back into the living room where he stopped short.

The rabbit was sitting in his comfy chair, remote control in hand, flipping idly through the channels. Martin absently noted that, per usual, there was nothing on. Judging by the frown twitching the rabbit’s nose, it agreed with that assessment. Martin stood frozen in place but before he could decide where to run to, the rabbit looked up and smiled. Before that moment Martin would have sworn rabbits couldn’t smile, but this one certainly did and quite happily, too.

“Ah, there you are,” the rabbit said. “I hope you don’t mind, I helped myself to some of your biscuits. Couldn’t find the tea though. Would you mind …?”

“T-tea?” Martin stammered then realised that a cup of tea was just what he needed. “Yes. Right. Of course. I’ll put the kettle on.” He went into the kitchen, feeling somewhat dazed. The rabbit was still there! The rabbit was still talking! The rabbit was watching telly! The rabbit was … eating his biscuits?

“Hold on,” Martin said and went back into the living room. “Did you take my cake? Are you the one that’s been stealing from me?”

The rabbit’s nose twitched, as did its ears and one paw. Martin was sure that if he’d been able to see the tail it would probably be twitching as well.

“No?” the rabbit said hesitantly. “Or … yes? Well, not _steal_! A rabbit does not steal. A rabbit borrows. And sometimes … forgets to bring things back.”

“That’s stealing,” Martin said and tried to look stern but the rabbit seemed so adorably flustered, it was really hard to muster up any real anger. “Next time just ask.”

The rabbit looked at him, clearly surprised. “Oh. I didn’t think of that. Ask. Yes. What a novel idea.”

Martin shook his head and went to put the kettle on. He put a few more biscuits on a small plate as well, just like his mother used to do whenever she had ladies from church over for tea. He didn’t think the rabbit was a lady though; at least it dressed rather manly. But what did he know of rabbit fashion?

“Here we go,” he said as he walked into the living room carrying a tray with a pot of steeping tea, two cups on saucers, the plate of biscuits, a pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar. He wasn’t sure why he felt so calm all of a sudden. Maybe he really was dreaming and this was the part where everything made perfect sense. Even a talking rabbit drinking tea.

“Ah, jolly good.”

The rabbit jumped off the comfy chair and hopped over to join Martin on the sofa. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable to have it so close but he was a grown man, he could handle one little talking rabbit. It wasn’t like it was a natural predator.

“You know, I really like what you’ve done with the place,” the rabbit said after the tea had been poured and they had both been sipping in silence for a while. “It’s so much nicer than when Sally lived here.”

“Sally?” Martin asked perplexed but then he remembered. That was the name of “the young lady who lived there before him”. “Right, Sally.” Her sudden disappearance suddenly took on a more sinister air. “What happened to her, do you know?”

The rabbit quickly averted its eyes. “Oh, poor Sally. Aslan did not like her.” It shook its head sadly. “I’m not saying he actually _ate_ her but … well. She really was a dreadful girl, we were all rather relieved when she disappeared. It was getting so frightfully cold.”

Martin stared at the rabbit, mouth open. “Wh-what? Aslan _ate_ her? Wait, who– _what_ is Aslan?”

“You don’t know?” The rabbit seemed not so much surprised as actually insulted. “Aslan is a lion. Please do try to keep up. And I did _not_ say he ate her. She simply disappeared. And … Well … Perhaps Aslan did put on a little weight at the same time. That’s all. No need to make accusations!”

Martin swallowed. “So, there is a lion where you come from. That is a bit alarming. Where did you come from, by the way?” he added, nervously.

“Your wardrobe, of course,” the rabbit said, munching on a biscuit that it had dipped in its tea. “Talking of which, I really wish you wouldn’t keep all those horrible fur coats in there. They make me shudder every time, they really do.”

“They’re not mine,” Martin said, frowning. “I didn’t even know they were in there. Hold on, wait a minute. How do you fit yourself, fur coats, and a lion into that small wardrobe?”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Aslan never goes into the wardrobe,” the rabbit sniffed, indignant. “Which you should be grateful for, if he saw those coats he would not be pleased. He has very strong opinions when it comes to such things.”

“But he doesn’t mind eating people,” Martin mumbled under his breath, clearing his throat awkwardly when the rabbit gave him a sharp look. “So if he’s not in the wardrobe, where is he?”

“In Narnia, of course. On the other side of the wardrobe?” the rabbit said patiently when Martin just stared at it. “You do know there are other worlds than this one, don’t you?”

“Erm … No? Wait a minute. What do you mean _worlds_? As in plural?”

“Well, there’s Narnia of course and then there’s Neverland, Oz, Fantastica and Wonderland, to name a few,” the rabbit counted on its toes. “You really have never heard of any of them?”

“Well, yes,” Martin admitted. “But these are all fictional places. You know, not real.”

The rabbit glared at him. “Not real? Where do you come from deciding what is and isn’t real? Am I not real?”

“Actually,” Martin said hesitantly. “I believe you’re a figment of my imagination.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” The rabbit threw down the biscuit and jumped off of the sofa. “Well, would a figment do this?” And it turned around and kicked Martin very hard in the shin with its hind legs. Martin yelled and drew his feet up on the sofa, rubbing his very sore shin with his palm.

“Ow! What the bloody hell did you do that for?”

The rabbit’s ears went stiff and it bared its teeth, nostrils flaring. “Watch your tongue. This is a children’s story!”

Martin frowned. “No, it isn’t. It’s my life.”

“Well, of course it is. That doesn’t mean it’s not a story,” the rabbit pointed out, rather smugly, Martin thought.

“If it is, it’s certainly not for children!” Martin threw back. “You just told me your lion friend ate a girl! And you are a thief. What kind of morals does that teach a child? Never mind that I’ve been walking around the flat with no clothes on and I even brought home a girl for a quick shag two weeks ago.”

“Oh, that. Don’t worry about that, we edited it out,” the rabbit said, unruffled. “Not that it was worth telling anyone about. I last longer than that and my penis is the size of a baby carrot. We also removed all the nude scenes,” it continued with a sigh when Martin only glared at it. “And the time you closed the cupboard on your thumb and used very colourful language. Did your mother really not teach you it’s wrong to swear? Humans these days! I mean, really!”

Martin didn’t know what to say. He knew _his_ world was real and yes, the rabbit seemed to be real, seeing as it was right there in front of him, and his leg still hurt from its really hard kick, which meant that Narnia was probably real as well. But all those other places? Neverland? Oz? He had read the books they were in. They were all _fiction_. He got up and walked over to the bookcase, pulling out his rather battered copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ , and flung it down on the coffee table. “See? Fiction!”

The rabbit rolled its eyes. “Where do you think he got the idea from? It was actually an uncle of mine that led him down there,” it confessed with an embarrassed frown. “By sheer accident of course. I hear they just gave him a lot of mushrooms and threw him back. Twenty five years later, _that_ came out!” The rabbit pointed at the book with disdain.

Martin sat back on the sofa. His head was reeling. “So you’re saying that all those fantasy worlds are not fictional but real and that the authors of those books based them on their experience visiting these worlds?”

“More or less, yes. You didn’t really think human beings had the capacity to imagine all that, did you?” the rabbit snorted. “Your world isn’t even magical! Were would their ideas stem from?”

“What about Harry Potter?” Martin asked. “If there’s no magic in our world, _that_ must be fiction!”

The rabbit sighed. “That’s what happens when wizards get senile, leave their world and start playing in others. Gandalf,” it elaborated when Martin only looked at it, confused. “Although I believe he called himself Dumbledore over here. It was all a big mess. We’re still trying to sort that out.”

Martin felt a sudden urge to log on to the Internet and post DUMBLEDORE REALLY IS GANDALF!!!11!! on his blog. Not that he would be the first to come up with that theory but in his case he would be _right_.

“All right, let’s say I believe you. Let’s say there are all these worlds and all I have to do is walk through my wardrobe to get there.”

The rabbit shook its head. “Ah, no. The wardrobe just leads you to Narnia and only when it wants to. However, if you wanted, for example, to go to Neverland, you’d need to fly. The second star to the right, I think it is. Or was it left? Ah, doesn’t matter. Likewise, to get to Wonderland you would need to find a rabbit hole. A rather big one in your case,” the rabbit added and gave Martin’s potbelly a pointed look.

“All right, all right,” Martin said, discreetly sucking in his stomach. “What I meant to say was, if that’s all true, then why are you here? And please don’t say, ‘Because Aslan is hungry’.”

“I never said he ate that girl!” the rabbit hissed and took a quick look around as if it was afraid someone was listening. “Now, look. I’m here because the wardrobe is here. That’s how it works. If it were up to me I would certainly not be talking to someone like you. For one thing, you are old.”

“I’m thirty!” Martin protested.

“And fat,” the rabbit continued aggravated, clearly not listening. “And you have a very disturbing relationship with your right hand.” The rabbit took a deep breath as it tried to calm itself down. “That wardrobe belongs in a house of far higher standards than this one. I honestly don’t know how it ended up in here.”

“An auction probably,” Martin said with a shrug. “Old stuff like this is really popular now.”

“Old stuff!” The rabbit shook its head. “Be that as it may. I’m here because, well, we are facing a bit of a crisis. Our world is … How shall I put it? Dwindling.”

“Dwindling?” Martin repeated confused.

“Shrink-ing,” the rabbit said slowly. “Gett-ing small-er. Disappearing. Honestly, do you never open a dictionary?”

“I know what dwindling means,” Martin bit back, feeling rather annoyed by the fact that he actually hadn’t known. “I just don’t understand what _you_ mean by it.”

The rabbit sighed. It tugged at its ear with its paw, a nervous habit it seemed to have. “Children have stopped reading books. Not altogether, thankfully, but there has been a steady decline in the number of read words per child in the last three decades or so. You understand why that would be a problem for us.”

“Erm, no. Not really,” Martin admitted.

The rabbit rolled its eyes. It clearly didn’t consider Martin to be the smartest pea in the pot and Martin was starting to agree with it, seeing as the whole thing felt very confusing to him.

“A world only exists as long as someone believes in it,” the rabbit explained. “The fewer who believe, the smaller the world. Hence the shrinking problem. Didn’t you ever read _The Neverending Story_? You must at least have seen the film. Everyone your age saw the film.”

Martin had to admit he hadn’t but still, the rabbit’s theory made sense in a way, he supposed. He still didn’t understand why it wasn’t enough for those living _in_ the world to believe in it, why they needed outside believers, but maybe that was how faith worked. It would explain why no one had seen heads or tails of unicorns for ages.

“I’m not sure what good I can do,” Martin said. “I’m only one person, there’s a limit to how many books I can read.”

The rabbit jumped on the sofa and beamed up at Martin, its ears pointing straight up and its nose twitching eagerly.

“Ah,” the rabbit said, “this is where it gets exciting. The thing is, we’re looking to expand our reach. To children everywhere, or just any readers, really. Desperate times, and all that. And that’s where you come in.”

“All right,” Martin said wary. “What do you need me to do?”

“Well,” the rabbit said, grinning from one pointy ear to the other. “Apparently there’s this thing called The Internet.”

fin  



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